


I'll be obscene, you'll be the rest

by kiiouex



Category: Raven Cycle - Maggie Stiefvater
Genre: Dairy Queen, Dubious Consent, M/M, POV Second Person, Rough Sex, Threesome - M/M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-09-04
Updated: 2016-09-04
Packaged: 2018-08-12 22:20:17
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,045
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7951369
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kiiouex/pseuds/kiiouex
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>You wish you weren’t like this but your heart is a coal fire and it’s pumping thick, black fumes directly into your head.</p>
            </blockquote>





	I'll be obscene, you'll be the rest

**Author's Note:**

> Enough Pynch, time for more of whatever it is I do. Title is from Oleander by Mother Mother because I love that line even if the rest of the song doesn't really fit. 
> 
> Thanks to [telekinesiskid](http://archiveofourown.org/users/telekinesiskid) for fulfilling her wifely duties and beta reading, she pointed out a massive hole and I'm so grateful ;-;

It’s one of those nights.

One of the nights where your skin is too tight, and there’s not enough room for you beneath it, one of the nights where your teeth grind against each other and you wish there was something else to bite down on. It’s somewhere past midnight and you should be exhausted but your body’s been shot through with electricity, with urgency, with the need to release the awful, taut agony that’s built up somewhere between your thighs and your gut.

The weight of Gansey in bed beside you is warm and comforting and everything you don’t need right now, because he’d look into the black pit of your loathing and tell you it’s not necessary, that you’re good and fine and safe, try to talk away that seething tide.

You want somebody to throw a match in.

You hold out for as long as you can, nails finding old grooves in your palms and digging in deep. You try to sleep and you try to sleep and your wired brain refuses, blindingly awake. The sheets are too heavy over your chest so you ball your hands up in them, throw them aside, stare up at the ceiling and try to remember how to breathe. The worst part is knowing exactly what you need and exactly how to get it, and the worst part is Gansey beside you, still asleep, still stretched out and reaching for you, even unconscious.

Nails catch skin, and you feel the warmth of blood beading up on your palm. It takes you back to the first acid taste of a name on your lips because you couldn’t keep it trapped behind your teeth, it takes you back to crooked teeth in a crooked grin and _you like that?_ and the void in you howls.

You get out of bed.

There’s a pattern across the floorboards that avoids the ones that creak, and you use your old trick to ease the door open so the wood won’t groan. You carry your boots and coat out with you to put them on in the stairwell, and you wish you weren’t like this but your heart is a coal fire and it’s pumping thick, black fumes directly into your head.

The sky has been spitting all night and the streets are slick, making wavery oil paintings of streetlights against tarmac. You drive slow enough, looking for a trace of violence or gasoline, high on your own noxious thoughts. Your knuckles bulge out of the silhouette of the wheel and it’s somewhere past two on a school night and you thought you were done with this, you really did.

The usual haunts are quiet. You circle old tyre tracks and broken bottles, the dead fairground and every back alley you’ve ever been to. There’s no trace of a rave, and you start to think they must all be at K’s house which is the only place you’ve ever really considered off-limits. It would be too much of an admission to seek him out there. It’s not like anyone thinks you’re _coincidentally_ showing up everywhere he is, but no one has to say it out loud. You have never cut yourself, but there are so many ways to hurt.

You are ready to give up and resign yourself to a night of grinding your face into a pillow when you finally see a flash of white, the Mitsubishi sticking out in the night like a lost tooth. It’s in the parking lot of the Dairy Queen on the edge of town, and you slow down just so you can process that. You were hoping for fireworks or fists, but it’s still K and he’s never let you down before. He’s got what you’ve got, though he channels it outwards, fire and bullets and the warped screech of something going wrong. You’ve got the cloying silence that follows, muted and horrible. One can take the edge off the other. 

You park around the corner to give yourself one last chance to talk yourself down, which is exactly as ritual as not taking that chance. Every part of you is thrumming, on edge, and you try not to catch sight of yourself in the BMW’s mirror as you open the door.

The whole gang’s there, because K’s a shot of something they can’t live without, and you make sure it’s contempt that rolls through you as you cast your eyes over them. Skov and Swan too close on the hood of one car, Proko and Jiang further apart on another, Kavinsky presiding over them all from on top of his Evo.

They are all eating ice cream.

Jiang sees you first and says, “K,” sounding slightly more unenthusiastic than usual. Kavinsky turns to you, and he’s not wearing his shades; he looks happy and human and it’s fucking horrible. You scour his face for traces of _Kavinsky_ and it’s there, but not enough.

“Lynch,” he calls out, a pleased slur of warm syllables, “Lynch, great fucking timing, go get yourself a tub and park yourself right up here.” He slaps the hood he’s sitting on and grins, red-eyed and lazily content. Something that’s been grinding along inside you catches, the part of you that likes him strung out and miserable so at least you can be better.

You stride up to his car, past the low glares of the assembled pack, and his knees are already open so you can press up against the grill of his car between them. The happy, hazy glaze on Kavinsky’s face sharpens just a little with you so close, but he doesn’t move. He doesn’t smell like blood or gunpowder, just sweat and _boy_ and frustration is curdling in you because there couldn’t be anything worse than dragging yourself out to see him and leaving with your heart still smoking.

“This what you do now, K?” you ask, knowing you sound like a prick and not caring. “Couldn’t drum up _any_ action better than this? You must be losing your touch.”

Kavinsky laughs, and it’s not a kind sound, but there is a thread of tenuous patience held out for you. “What, I’m not allowed to take a break? You’re wound too tight – I’ve got something for that.”

“I’m not interested in your _pills,_ you piece of shit,” you say, aware of the black storm you’ve hauled along with you, aware that your edges are all embarrassingly visible.

Kavinsky’s eyes gleam, recognition of your need, but he only moves to take another scoop of ice cream, and leaves the spoon sticking stupidly out the corner of his mouth. He talks around it; “Find your chill, Lynch.”

The eyes of his boys on you are making it worse, because Kavinsky’s not helping and you are not in the mood to beg. You jerk the spoon out of Kavinsky’s mouth, and his lips part just in time to save his teeth. His knees twitch in around your hips, and you get a fistful of his shirt, and for a moment everything is firing the right way, tension in your head easing with all the simplicity of violence.

But Kavinsky still isn’t playing; his fingers find your collarbones but they don’t dig in, it’s just a hold, enforcing distance. He’s stopped smiling, but the hollows of his eyes still aren’t edged with the danger you came all the way out to see. “Come on, Lynch,” he says, carefully enunciating every gnarl of his olive branch, “Take something, smoke something, sit the fuck down and eat some ice cream. We’re trying to have a good time here.”

You hook a fist into his stomach. Not that hard; one last dumb attempt to goad him into it. Kavinsky wheezes with the blow, the cave of his gut a very poor punching bag, but he doesn’t charge forwards to revenge himself on you; he lashes out with a foot, catching you hard in the thigh, shoving you away.

You stumble back one step from it, fist still clenched, watching the awkward way Kavinsky’s hunching up, waiting for him to engage. He doesn’t. He huffs out one breath of half-joking betrayal and plants his hands back on the hood, cocking his head in a very clear refusal. “I’m not good enough to hang out with?” He says it like it’s a joke, all upwards inflection and teeth, but no one laughs.

You’re aware of Skov and Swan on the ground behind you now, realise they’d slid off their car as soon as you’d drawn your fist back, and they have an uncomfortable amount of muscle between them. Their fists are scabby, tense and ready, and Skov looks like he’s itching to hit you for your next rude word to K, a war dog straining at the leash. Swan’s equally ready to rough you up, but that’s usual for him; it’s the air between him and Skov that’s so strangely sour, a gross protectiveness for their master that you don’t want to touch.

You are not going to get a single fucking thing out of tonight, and frustration is barbed wire wrapped around your spine, pricking the back of your throat as you choke out, “ _Fine_ , I’m gone. See you next time you’re out of your fucking head and actually up for some fun.”

Skov and Swan don’t move when you turn around, and you have to actually shove to get through them. They don’t look nearly as pleasantly stoned as K does, and you feel their gaze prickling the back of your neck as you leave, catching in the hooks of your tattoo and following it all the way down.

You’re parked around the back of the building, out of sight of the pack and of everyone else, and you feel safe to vent your frustration into your tyres with a juvenile kick. There’s nowhere left but Monmouth, where your thoughts hang in stinging clouds, so for a moment you don’t move, just glare at the car’s window and loathe the reflected universe.

Footsteps come up behind you, and you don’t turn in time to stop a hand from slamming into the small of your back, shoving you up against the side of the BMW. You try to twist back around, but you’re shoved back again harder, the door handle digging painfully into your ribs. Skov and Swan close in on either side of you, settling in around your back and shoulders, keeping you tight against the curve of the car. Their expressions haven’t gotten any kinder.

“What the fuck do you think you’re doing?” you demand, pushing back and finding absolutely no give. “Piss _off_.”

In response, Swan smashes your head against the roof and Skov makes a rough grab for your junk, and your toxic little heart beats _yes yes yes_ through the bloom of pain in your head. “You are a fucking mess, Lynch,” Swan tells you, speaking slow to make sure his words get through your new head trauma, “And a fucking prick. You only want K when it suits you? He’s not in the mood tonight, so you get us.”

There is no part of this you should be into, but your mind and body are both traitors to your soul. You feel the hot trickle of blood from your nose to your lip, and you want to wipe it off but your hands are trapped against the car door. You lick it away instead, Swan’s eyes following the trace of red disappearing under your tongue.

Skov reaches up to grab your chin, and he turns you towards him, squeezing you through your jeans and smirking just a little when you can’t stifle your groan. Whatever they’re on is meaner than what K’s been taking, and they’re both half-hard but not hurried, pressing in against you, a wall against the world. No one is coming around the side of a Dairy Queen at two in the morning, no one is going to see what they’re about to do to you, and you don’t think you could stop them anyway.

The only thing you’re sure about right now is that you want this. The ache in your bloody nose is good, but it makes the rest of your unmarred body too calm in comparison. You want it all over, until you’re too far out of your head to think, and your hips rock up against Skov’s hand, your lips twist to a red-streaked sneer, you are going to be whatever they want you to be to make sure this happens. 

At least they’re pissed at you, for whatever reason, and they’re going to make it good. Any space left between their bodies and yours gets closed, the burning tyres scent of them mixing up with the tang of blood in your nose, and they share a brief, hostile kiss behind your head before Skov clamps his teeth into your shoulder and Swan gets back to mashing you into the side of the car.

Four hands between them is more than you can keep track of, and there’s always one forcing you down, but everything else is movement, stroking too hard between your legs, grabbing your hip, digging into your skin like they want to leave bruises on your bones. Someone’s got a grip on the back of your neck and you feel so _handled_ and it thrills you in every way you can’t admit to.

They flip you over, and Swan settles an arm over your throat to hold you down while Skov kicks your legs open and steps in between them. Your jeans get shoved down, just an inch, just enough, and every part of you is aching, straining, heavy breaths bending towards Skov’s hands spread over your thighs. “I don’t know why K thinks you’re so special,” he complains, pressing down on your hips as you try to snap them up, “You’re as hungry for him as the rest of us.”

Any response you might have offered is lost around Swan’s fingers thrust into your mouth, pressing down on your tongue, making you spit and swallow around them. You slaver unpleasantly and Skov laughs cruelly, yanking on your dick.

It’s humiliating that they don’t even need to fuck you, that all you need is heat and a rough touch. Your world narrows to two bodies too close and old slurs hissed in the wrong voice but still low and mean enough to get you off, and you shudder masochistically through it all. You are a mess of misfiring synapses, too eager, already overwhelmed as you teeter towards the brink.

At some point Swan stepped in between you and the car and every time you stretch away from Skov you crash into him. You can feel Swan’s cock grinding along your ass every chance you give it. He’s got a hand around your throat and his fingers in still in your mouth, making you choke and spit and gag and shiver. Swan’s keeping you crushed against him, and there’s no air between them, and they’re spending half the time staring at each other around you, something white-hot and vicious expressed through making you hurt. Skov squeezes your dick too hard, you groan, and Swan bucks up against you; this isn’t a game you should want to be part of, but they’re crowding out your thoughts and you’re still so willing to let them.

You find the edge before you’re ready, but your whole body is reverberating with your pulse, heat and haze swimming through you with every unkind tug of Skov’s hand. Swan’s fingers stretch your jaw and Skov thumbs the head of your cock, hand slick with the proof of how much you like this, and you’re grinding back helplessly against the body behind you, the body in front of you, and everything is too good, too raw, and you’re lost to it.

It’s not a rise or a rush like you’re used to; it’s just shattering between them, the pressure from their hands finally hard enough to help you rupture. You break into smaller and smaller pieces until the cracks are wide enough for all your feelings to fall out in between. Now you can rebuild yourself without them.

 You’ve made a mess over your own stomach, and Skov’s, but no one cares. When you come down they’re reaching around you, a rough collision that you’re glad you’re not a part of. They drop you to the side, and you fall down along your car, legs not so steady outside of their vice. For a moment you’re okay to just catch your breath, wipe your mouth, pull your shirt back down to cover what you painted on your stomach, and watch Skov stroke his dick together with Swan’s as he crushes him up against the side of your BMW. They’re done in a rough exhale, bitten lips and blown pupils, and you want to tell them not to get anything on your car but you don’t want to put the thought in their heads.

 Swan’s foot catches you hard in the ribs as he steps over you, but he heads back without a word. It’s Skov that squats down in front of you, and you talk to him sometimes, you can recognise the awful, contemptuous pity on his face. “You’re a fucking wreck,” he tells you, and spits onto your shirt. “You could have just eaten some goddamn ice cream, but no. Leave K alone.” You lash out at him, but your heart’s not in it, and he fucks off after Swan.

You get yourself back in the driver’s seat and wait for shame to sting you. The aftermath is rank and sour, the ache in your body less sweet, the disgust too sharp in the back of your throat. It’s never so bad with Kavinsky as it is with his dogs, and you smash your head back against the headrest, loathing yourself down to your bones.

You drive the long way around, so you won’t pass them on your way out, and the silence of Henrietta at night feels like a condemnation. The collar of bruises around your neck are a well-deserved punishment for letting yourself do this. At least, you think, you’ll be able to sleep.

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading!!! You can find me on tumblr over [here](http://kiiouex.tumblr.com/), I'd love to know what you thought!
> 
> also we don't have Dairy Queen here, so if this isn't what Dairy Queen does, I tried my best. (We have Wendy's, but I know Wendy's is a _different_ chain over there, it's so hard)


End file.
